


Gurēnja-san's Stick-o'-Doom

by Raven_Blanchard



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Naruto
Genre: But still adorable beans, Chakra is NOT Magic, Crossover, Dimension-Hopping, F/M, Kimimaro is an adorable bean, Kiri Rebellion, Kirigakure | Hidden Mist Village, Lots of me trying to explain how magic works in a chakra world, Magic is mindbreaking to these ninja, Narutoverse has Magic, Politics, Uchiha with MAGIC, Ukon and Sakon are jerks, Worldbuilding, Yes Hermione adopts that baby, let's be real, lots of things in Naruto are absolute shit and can only be explained by magic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-07
Updated: 2020-08-07
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:01:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25764079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raven_Blanchard/pseuds/Raven_Blanchard
Summary: Disoriented and still trembling from the aftermath of her very recent bout of torture, Hermione Granger finds herself surrounded by dead bodies, in a new world that is just as magical and about a hundred times as deadly as her own. Armed with only two wands, her library-and-closet-in-a-purse, and a black-haired infant of unknown parentage, she tries her utmost overachieving best to survive and raise her unexpected son. Sorry,sons.(Also on fanfiction.net)
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Utakata
Comments: 3
Kudos: 46





	Gurēnja-san's Stick-o'-Doom

**ONE**

**Disillusionment**

* * *

She wakes up to a sight that makes her want to fall unconscious again right then and there.

In her defence, none of the shite she's staring at right now is making a lick of sense in the first place.

She looks up at the sky, looks around, studies her current predicament once more, and realizes, for the millionth time that minute, that the world had gone absolutely bonkers; nothing makes any sense at all, whatsoever.

" _Tsukuyomi_." A muffled voice says somewhere, and a scream follows soon after. Out of morbid curiosity, she cranes her neck past the corner to see what's happening. And, much to her surprise, she sees a young boy in the distance — perhaps twelve or thirteen years old give or take, or fourteen if she pushes it — standing next to two dead bodies, and staring down at a younger boy who just could not stop screaming and screaming and _screaming_ , like he was being gutted and roasted over a fire and stabbed again and again.

Like he's being put under the Cruciatus curse.

Well, she thinks to herself absently, if nothing else about her current situation, she could understand _that._ The pain behind the little boy's screams. There are very few things she can relate to with others, being who she is and what her _hobbies_ entail (because seriously, are bookworms and research enthusiasts who are simultaneously involved in _saving the world_ , really _that_ rare?), but if there is one thing she can most definitely relate to, it's the utterly maddening agony that comes with being tortured. It's the kind of thing that she knows very intimately, and _very much recently_.

So recently, in fact, that she can still hear her tormentor's laughs. The insane witch's voice as she cackled and cursed, over and over again:

**_Crucio!_ **

**_Crucio! Crucio, you mudblood filth!_ **

**_CRUCIO!_ **

She shivers, unable to quite muster enough of her characteristic righteous outrage at the sight of a _child_ being tortured.

Sluggishly, she lifts her still-trembling fingers, rolls up her trousers and unstraps her vine wood wand from her leg (thank goodness they'd forgotten to frisk her for a secondary wand back in the manor — or a _primary_ wand, as the case may be — not that it would have made a difference, surrounded and trapped as she'd been) and quickly casts on herself the strongest Disillusionment charm she could manage. If the corpses strewn about like confetti around her are any indication (she still couldn't make sense of what's going on — where the devil is she, why are there so many dead people, and are those _red lollipops_ embroidered on the backs of their shirts?), then she couldn't at all afford to be seen by whomever or whatever had caused this... this _massacre_.

The cause which, by the way, seems more and more likely to be the teenager she'd just seen. The one who had uttered the strange word, _tsukuyomi_.

And that makes just about as much sense as everything else. That is, none at all.

She is no stranger to children being much more powerful (and therefore more dangerous) than adults — she's a witch with muggle parents, after all, and accidental magic could harm muggles if it is strong enough — so she understands that it is entirely within the realm of possibility for children to be able to accidentally harm (and/or kill) adults, but for accidental magic to kill this many people, in this utterly gruesome manner?

None of the deaths seem to be caused by accidental magic, or by accident at all.

Unless it is possible to accidentally slash the throats of so many people, but then that's just pushing it.

No, this massacre is quite apparently deliberate, and it's absurd to even consider that a child (or a _teenager_ , she relents) has been behind it. Not even Voldemort could do such a thing at thirteen, though it probably wasn't for lack of trying on the psychopath's part.

That teenager hadn't accomplished this on his own, that much is completely obvious. The exact identities of his accomplices, however, are not.

She needs to tread carefully in this place, wherever it is.

A soft gurgling noise erupts beside her, and she swiftly draws her wand to point at where it came from, a _Stupefy_ ready at the tip of her tongue.

She almost sags in relief when she realizes that the culprit is just a baby. Or at least she thinks it's a baby. It appears more like a cocoon of blankets, and if it hasn't been wiggling like a dying flobberworm she would have thought it's just laundry. She picks up the bundle, places it on her lap while warily eyeing the dead woman just a foot away. The baby's mother, it seems like. And based on the fact that the woman is face-down on the ground with a puddle of blood near her neck, Hermione assumes she'd died the same way the others did.

She unwraps the bundle a tiny bit, and a baby's face peeks at her, dark eyes wide and filled with curiosity. Then suddenly, the baby giggles.

 _Bloody hell!_ She hisses mentally, making quick work of another Disillusionment charm and casts it on the infant. She doesn't know if it would be enough, in fact she's almost sure it wouldn't, since the baby is now fully awake and would inevitably make a lot more noise, and so she adds a _Muffliato_ , just to be safe. She's certain that whoever killed all these people would definitely kill the baby (and herself) too if they find it.

Sure enough, right after the silencing spell takes hold, a masked man rounds up the corner (the fact that his orange swirl mask seems to fit the common lollipop theme would have been hilarious if she hasn't been _fearing for her life_ ). He stood still as a statue, eyeing the spot where she is sitting frozen as a statue, walks closer and …stops. His sandalled feet mere inches from her leg. For a moment she's convinced he can see through the spell, and she tenses, poises herself to flee. Although she couldn't risk apparition in her weakened state, she'd would definitely attempt it if need be. The possibility of splinching is just that – a possibility. As much as she fears for the infant's safety, she couldn't quite muster up the courage to put the child's life above her own. Not when she now knows that there are worse things than splinching. Worse things than dismemberment.

And there are far worse things than death.

 _Please please please make it so I don't have to be brave now,_ she prays. _Please let me be a coward for a while. It hurts to be brave. It hurtsithurtsithurts-_

**_You think you're brave, eh? Think your stupid courage will help you? Very well then, try braving this! CRUCIO!_ **

Seemingly by coincidence, her eyes meet his one red eye (red, red, _red_ like He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named) and she freezes, scarcely dares to even breathe, and prays that it wouldn't be like Scabior and the ruddy snatchers all over again. Hopefully, her blasted perfume has long since lost its scent.

If she lives through this, she would never wear perfume ever again.

Swallowing the lump in her throat, she looks away from his gaze, focuses on his hands instead, her fingers tensing around her wand.

No more perfume after this. Ever.

She doesn't know what causes it — if it's the heavy stench of congealing blood in the air that covers her scent, or if it's just her luck that the man is upwind and therefore couldn't smell anything amiss, or if he never caught her scent in the first place— but eventually the man backs away and leaves, just as quickly and silently as he came.

She lets out a breath that she doesn't know she's been holding, and gingerly rises to her feet.

She hears two muffled voices — she identifies one voice as the teenage boy's, and the other probably the masked man's. Casting a feather-light charm on the infant in her weak arms, she makes an awkward shuffle in the opposite direction from the voices, away from the scene, her pace slow and stilted, her tired mind focused on the singular task of escaping the place.

There would be time to think about the whole bizarre situation later.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, for some reason I took this fic down a couple of years ago, (I think it's because of the utter lack of inspiration) but then I realized that this is actually a pretty okay premise, and maybe I should put it back up (...and maybe finish it). I think this "takedown" was around the time I got into the self-insert trope, which I think was the next step after crossovers. (Because what crossover is better than one with reality?)
> 
> Also, pardon the absolutely horrible hodgepodge of American and British syntax in this, as I've been born and raised with US English, and any attempt on my part at a nominally 'Brit' articulation would probably just seem like the bastard lovechild of Austen and Dickinson. Just thank your lucky stars I'm not actually reading this to you in my admittedly horrendous attempt at a Cockney accent.
> 
> Anyway, do tell me what you think! Any suggestions, (constructive) criticisms and ideas are welcome.


End file.
